


Five times the boys tried to Do It against a wall and one time they used their brains

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bad Luck, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Multiple injuries, UST, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-07-24 18:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: John and Sherlock try to Do It in various places in the flat, but apparently a good piece of wall is a rare commodity and they end up crashing into random objects.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired by this exchange](http://silentauroriamthereal.tumblr.com/post/178698873460/everyones-always-getting-backed-up-against-a-wall)  
>  Yeah, I know, I have other WIPs. I will get back to them as soon as this plot bunny takes its teeth out of my leg.

It was one of these days when everything went surprisingly well. The case was intriguing, the police were slightly less irritating than usually, Lestrade seemed less stressed (signed the divorce papers and started frequenting a gym), forensic team didn’t trample relevant evidence and yet managed to completely miss it, providing Sherlock with satisfactory chance to expound on the proper identification of various feathers of Psittacidae.

And then there was an adrenaline-raising chase of their suspects (smugglers who had killed one of their own when he threatened to turn them in due to late-onset of remorse) and a thrilling standoff in the middle of the docks, between shipping containers. And John had been  _marvellous_. Not only had he managed to disable one of the perpetrators using a  _bird cage_  they had smuggled their cargo in but got the other two cornered and sufficiently terrorised for Sherlock to manage to cuff them to a door handle on one of the containers.

Lestrade and his team arrived promptly and had lauded their achievement with sufficient amount of praise, although Donovan’s asking John if the unconscious bandit was dead (and John’s answer “no, he’s resting, look”) sounded a bit strange.

And then there was the ride home, with John smiling at him as if he had done something particularly brilliant, and John telling him he had been marvellous and surprising and smart and making Sherlock feel a tiny bit flushed at the way John’s eyes were focused on him, blue and wide and  _adoring_.

The seventeen steps to their flat never seemed so long, but he focused on the extremely attractive view of John’s  _derriere_  straining the dark blue denim just in front of his face and got up there as quickly as he could. They unlocked the door, wrestling for the doorjamb and then pushing at each other, giggling softly, as each tried to enter the flat first. Finally John sneaked under his raised arm and was inside, shedding his green coat and turning to hang it properly. Sherlock just couldn’t resist and reached up, hanging his Belstaff next to it, crowding John against the various jackets and umbrellas there.

His friend stiffened minutely but then, rather unexpectedly (but delightfully nonetheless!) melted into Sherlock’s embrace.

“Ah” was the small exhalation he gave, his head lolling onto Sherlock’s shoulder “Sh… Shellok… I…”

“Jawn” he heard himself murmur, his brain not really processing at the greatest efficiency. “You smell like… gunpowder…” he traced the back of John’s neck with his nose. “Your cologne, chalk… Wool… Mmm… Biscuits…”

“Sh-sherlock!” John shivered and pressed himself closer, panting shallowly. Sherlock used the opening and took initiative. Spinning them in place, he turned John to put them face to face and slammed the shorter man against the door, claiming his lips in one fluid move. Unfortunately he quickly understood that the small moans John was emitting were  _not_  due to delight.

“John? What’s…”

“My kidney. Doorjamb” John gasped painfully. “Bloody hell. I think we need to go to A&E. Fuck that hurts.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one when falling asleep at my laptop. No idea how many errors I made. Feel free to point them out in the comments :)

The day was awful. On a scale from zero to Pool, it was just below Pool, because it lacked Moriarty (thankfully) and basically any day was below Pool if there was no Moriarty. This particular day, this particular case, however? That was like infinitesimally below Pool. The only thing between Pool and that case was not even Moriarty, it was so close that only a photo of Moriarty would have slipped in.

Sherlock had been a menace, the police were useless, the witnesses were unreliable and the victim was – even when taking into account the fact that he had been beat up – an idiot. An idiot who forgot in which of the numerous gay bars of London he had been trying to pull a bloke who turned out to be quite, quite taken.

Thus necessitating Sherlock and John dressing up and going clubbing, looking for all purposes like a loving gay couple, with John playing the more Daddy part of the equation and Sherlock the younger, more flirty and devastatingly handsome half.

John was no longer sure if Sherlock even knew what they were looking for, because finding that one bloke who was willing to trash a stranger flirting with his partner in the _entire London_ must have been a very, very long shot. Sherlock however claimed he had a plan, a method and a mission and John was supposed to be supporting him and not complaining about the way his butt looked absolutely divine in the pair of black denims. And what do you mean by “divine”, John, please _define_.

He would gladly define the divinity of said butt if he only could get Sherlock for a moment in a private corner. The stupid wanker.

Sherlock was not betraying any inclination to leave the club, using up the last shreds of patience John had had at his disposal, finally causing a bit of unrest when he tried to resist being manhandled into a cab and then driven to Baker Street.

The atmosphere in the cab was even worse than in the club, with Sherlock positively awash in pheromones and John reacting to his Every. Bloody. Move. The cabbie was watching them with trepidation in his back mirror, probably trying to work out if they were going to shag right there, on his back seat. His casual interest helped to bring the ardour down, but still John felt his excitement bubbling inside him.

The stairs up were a torture, but even worse was the warm feeling of Sherlock at his back as he unlocked the door. Quickly and efficiently, he pulled his partner inside and – avoiding the doorjamb – he pushed the taller man against the wall just next to it.

"You silly, silly idiot" he growled. "Didn't think I would spot the fact that you had resolved the case hours ago, did you? Thought you could play with me some more, tease me a bit, string me along? _Answer me, boy_!"

Sherlock pouted, but nodded slowly.

"You" John punctuated it with a long, strong sucking kiss on the side of Sherlock's neck "Are" another, a but lower "Mine!"

He pushed his hips upwards, into the captive detective, who whimpered and closed his eyes. John reached up, bringing the curly head closer, the perfect lips to his…

The coat rack finally gave in, the nails that had been holding it now forcibly ripped from the plaster and the contents covering both of them as they suddenly found themselves on the floor, submerged in winter apparel of varied kinds.

"Ouch."

John heard the pain in that simple pronouncement and dug frantically for his friend, until he unearthed the head and especially the curls, that had apparently cushioned the fall of the wood-and-steel accessory.

"Hospital" he said in a decisive tone. "We need to check this head."

_And I will never forgive myself for risking his life because of my jealousy._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is coming

Aggravating.

It was the only way to describe that particular day.

The 23rd of December, the city covered with slush, the sleet disgusting and the people absolutely maddening. He had to admit, he had probably added to his misery by combining several actions that led him to that point, but he never expected it to go _that_ badly.

First, he had ignored John's repeated suggestions to go shopping for Christmas presents (and other details).

Second, he promised and consequently forgot to order the needed items online (because John's card expired on the 1st and the post apparently ate the replacement).

Third, he let himself be roped into going shopping on the last day before Christmas Eve.

Fourth, he escaped said shopping the moment Lestrade called with a case.

And the case was a measly two that he managed to solve in a matter of minutes after seeing the victim.

The case had however brought him to a shopping centre. Unfortunately it was the same shopping centre that John had used for _his_ shopping trip, which brought them on a collision course with each other, with Sherlock barely managing to hide from his enraged flatmate/partner/friend and then snooping on him as he shopped in a female apparel store (probably something for Mrs Hudson), a scarf stand (Harry and Molly), a novelty gadget shop (Lestrade and probably Mycroft), tie boutique (Mike) and finally a small stand offering various multitools and Swiss army knifes (here he drew a blank).

The blank was drawn simply because the stand was staffed by a woman of John's dreams. Slightly shorter than him, red curls (Sherlock had to admit the aesthetic value of natural hair of that shade) and very, very _bouncy_ where John liked his girlfriends to be bouncy. Also, very friendly.

And John was reacting to her, damn the man.

Lip-lick. The damned, infernal lip-lick. The little half-shy half-cocky smile of John's and THAT INFERNAL LIP-LICK.

He was on a verge of calling Mycroft and demanding licking one's lips in public to be prohibited. He would claim it as his Christmas present.

The girl was watching John's mouth and biting her own lip. Her breathing increased, Sherlock could see it even from that distance.

And now John was rubbing his chin, because – oh, Sherlock sometimes forgot, simply due to living with that fact daily for the previous weeks – John had started to grow a beard. A proper, thick, luxurious, slightly reddish beard that apparently made shop assistants and consulting detectives lust over him in equal measure.

Yes, walking outside with a beard like that should also be banned. He would add that to the regulation he would ask Mycroft for.

That. Was. Hell.

The girl was watching the movements of John's hand as if hypnotised.

She had no right to that beard or to that lip-lick. They were _his_.

He turned on his heel and strode to the exit where the cabs were disgorging passengers. In seconds, he was on his way home, not sure if the waves of jealousy were worse, or simply more humiliating than his raging hard-on.

 

#

 

John came home hours later, laden with bags and a backpack full of food. He was obviously exhausted and _still_ fuming and he expressed it by banging the cupboard door loudly as he unpacked the foodstuffs and then stomping upstairs to his room, hiding the presents in some – probably idiotic – corners of his room.

A trip downstairs brought him to the kitchen and that was where Sherlock, no longer painfully aroused but still painfully jealous, finally cornered him.

"Nice shopping trip" he remarked, his voice dropping into a slight growl.

"Yes, actually. I got some great bargains and there was nobody to interfere with my gift choices, so I think it went alright."

He was pouring the water into the mug – _one mug_ , Sherlock noted with sudden anxiousness – and shrugging. SHRUGGING.

"I suppose nice shop assistants didn't hurt either?" he felt his voice breaking just a tiny bit.

"Well, the one selling ties was coming onto me a bit strong, but he was not my type" John added a healthy spoon of honey to the mug and blew on it, making to pass by Sherlock.

"Oh. I see. And what was wrong with him?"

John rolled his eyes and pushed by, strolling towards his chair.

"Too young. A bit. I don't go for teenagers working in their first job."

He put the mug on a coaster and that was the moment when Sherlock pounced. He didn't want John to spill his tea – or use it as a weapon – but he was at the very edge of his patience.

"And what _do_ you go for?" he asked, slowly walking John towards the wall. "Hmm? If not eager youngsters, then maybe energetic, busty mid-thirties?"

"Sherlock?" John sounded a bit winded.

"You probably weren't her type anyway, but she seemed to be playing the role quite well…"

"The fuck? Were you spying on me, Sherlock?"

He avoided answering by the simple act of lowering his head and kissing John with all the pent-up frustration of the previous hours. One step. Two steps. Wall. Press John. Snog some more.

He slowly adjusted the angle, covering John's thin lips with his and curling his arms around the shorter man, who was responding to his ministrations with equal ardour.

He reached up, trying to prop himself on one arm on the wall, but his hand grazed something. Said something tickled, and by pure reflex, he shook his hand to get rid of it. It fell. John jerked at the contact, smashing the side of his head against the fireplace shelf, which made him careen forward and butt Sherlock in the face with his own forehead.

They tumbled away from the wall, John frantically pawing at the object on his neck and Sherlock trying to stem the bleeding from his nose.

 _Stupid holiday customs_ he thought, watching John try to dislodge a piece of mistletoe that got tangled in his jumper.


	4. Chapter 4

They had to blame it on something.

Finally, they blamed it on the snow.

Who would have thought, snow in London, in January.

And a proper cold snap, too.

The case was strangely dissatisfying for something Sherlock had pronounced a six – despite all the promise, it turned out to be a banal thing, basically, a dognapping disguised as a dark magic ritual.

Also, a jealous neighbour who stole a neon reindeer and tried to cover his tracks by remodelling it into a neon unicorn.

Even John saw through that one rather quickly.

He also saw a few other things that made his blood boil, starting with the fact that Sherlock had been bloody flirting with one of the suspects in order to get him to spill (he did) and ending with the new sergeant who was assisting Donovan _and_ flirting with Sherlock like a man possessed. John wouldn't be found speculating on the topic of _what_ possessed said sergeant, but he would have been quite glad for a chance to have a personal discussion with the young man and a possibility to exorcise his demons by the means of a swift kick into the sit of his pants with a heavy winter boot.

In short, he wanted to kick a police officer's ass for talking to _his_ Sherlock.

Of course that would be quite impossible, because then someone would question the exact nature of his relationship to the aforementioned consulting detective and John Simply Had No Idea.

Were they flatmates?

Definitely.

Parthers?

Business partners, yes.

Friends?

Absolutely. Best ever.

 _Boy_ friends?

Nothing so childish.

Lovers?

**He wished.**

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

No, that not. Well, he wished.

And then the taxi was unheated and the cabbie was one of the most nervous ones, moving among other cars with either exaggerated delicacy or reckless abandon.

Their blood pumping, their adrenaline high, their testosterone buzzing, they both stomped up the stairs to their flat, undressed (jacket and coat carefully placed on a new rack) and managed to get their shoes off without messing the floor up too much.

"I'll take them to the bathroom" he offered, picking up Sherlock's poor, waterlogged pair.

"I'll start the fire" his friend suggested with voice somehow breaking.

"Yeah, fucking cold in here."

They actually managed to get through these simple tasks without accidents, but the flat was still cold and so they tried checking out the windows for leaks.

And one of the upper panes opened, dumping a load of collected snow directly on their heads. Which actually didn't make them all that angry, and gave them the chance and excuse to put their hands on each other, with John shaking the load of white from Sherlock's curls and Sherlock combing his own ash-blond and wiping of the excess moisture. And then they were kissing, with John needing, craving the possibility to put his own claim on Sherlock, so that there would be no more flirting sergeants, no more starry-eyed fans, no more love letters from crazy followers. NO MORE.

Sherlock regained his balance in a few seconds and turned them, gaining some leverage on the wall by the window and bending lower and closer to explore John's mouth in full.

He leaned back, giving Sherlock better access to his neck and jaw and felt these full, plush lips follow the offered area. His heartbeat picked up – a bit more than before – and he relaxed, depending on Sherlock's long arms to keep him upright.

_RRRIP._

Sherlock's mouth was now exploring the underside of his ear, when John felt something give. With a crunch. And a lit of broken-glass clinking. And a thump. Soft thump.

"This is going out of our deposit" he groaned and made a valiant attempt at untangling himself from the mass of fabric of the window curtain that they had managed to wind about themselves, thus bringing down the entire brass double curtain rod, pulling it right on the small window that had opened by itself earlier and had been the one to dump the snow over them.

Sherlock carefully picked up a shard of glass that had got itself lodged in the folds of the heavy velvet.

"I think you should remain immobile for now, John."

"I have to get out of this…!"

"No, actually you don't. You shouldn't, preferably, because there is a huge piece of jagged glass pointing itself at your liver. I'd much rather see you intact, so you will have to let me do it.

John hated being helpless and limited by his surroundings, but he kept still until Sherlock removed most of the biggest parts of the window frame and glass.

The curtain didn't fare very well.

That was definitely coming out of their deposit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the last time ;) Sherlock tries to trick fate.

New Year resolutions were something one traditionally pronounced at the beginning of January, bought a card for, a machine needed or the book sometime mid-January and forgot completely by the Valentine's Day (another disgusting tradition, and one John fortunately scorned with passion).

Unfortunately in one aspect John was very much non-traditional. He made his resolution and he kept it. To Sherlock's endless frustration. And it was end of April already!

Not only was the execution of said resolution time-consuming and forcing John to spend additional time on travel to and from the place where he undertook it, it also made him…

...glow.

Krav Maga. Of all things in the world, did John have to undertake that particular brand of exercise? Couldn't he have just taken up boxing? Boxing was something Sherlock himself could have partaken in (if in a different weight category) and maybe even provided some of his expertise to support his friend. Krav Maga, however, was very much outside of his scope of experience, except for some cases when he had witnessed someone having been taken down by the usage of said technique.

John had decided he needed to be more. In general, more. He had had the army training, he had his rugby experience from school and university, he did attend some judo classes at school (being undersized was never a good thing, so he learned to kick higher than his tormentors ever expected) and he was, all in all, rather skilled in taking down a perp.

And yet he felt he needed to be better at beating people into pulp.

In general, Sherlock didn't disagree. John's skills in hand to hand combat were terribly useful in their work (and, incidentally, at John's work, where some patients tended to be combative rather than cooperative). In particular, though, he was very much against the idea of John spending more time than necessary away from home _and_ him fraternising with the terrible, skilled, muscled, self-assured men who _touched_ him both when instructing him and when sparring.

Some would probably be bringing John down, to the mat. Pressing him into that mat.

He took a long, deep, slow breath.

No. It would not be allowed.

Nobody was pressing John to anything, unless it was Sherlock doing the pressing.

A quick look around their living room dismissed various spots as potential places to press anyone to. Finally, giving up on vertical surfaces, Sherlock turned to the sofa. It was _almost_ perfect, but the wall behind it seemed to be leering at him, suspiciously and enticingly empty and free of any decoration that would potentially fall down on them, get ripped from the plaster… No, he was not risking that.

He moved the sofa towards the middle of the room, leaving a healthy buffer of free floor between it and the wall. Now, perfect. The coffee table would go slightly… there, yes. No risk of tripping on it or any other mishap.

The heavy, tired steps on the stairs announced the arrival of his missing flatmate. Quickly, to ensure that John would be soon sitting on the sofa, he moved the TV and put on the first random show that was _not_ news. Stretching himself on the sofa (leaving a healthy bit of space strategically) was a matter of seconds.

The door opened and closed. John sighed.

"Do I even want to know?"

He sounded amused. _Amused!_

Sherlock glanced up and froze.

John had been to a barber.

The beard he had been growing out for a few months was neatly trimmed, making it slightly darker and much more distinguished. His hair was trimmed accordingly, but if it had been styled, it was lost under the pressure of the ninety-minutes training session and sauna. Sauna. John smelled like sauna, like pine, like warmth, like essential oil used in that particular establishment…

"Just wanted some change" he managed to utter and looked back at the telly.

"What are you watching?"

He shrugged.

"Documentation about early spring flowers. Fascinating stuff."

"Nice landscapes" John remarked dryly, leaving the bag by the coat rack and sitting at the spot left specifically for him by Sherlock. The warmth of his body almost burned the detective's feet, but he shook himself out of the stupor and sat up, nimbly slithering over and into John's lap. Encircling the soldier's neck, he brought up his face and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. And another. John made an appreciative sound and brought up his both hands, holding Sherlock in place and bringing him even closer.

They spent a few moments blissed out on the closeness, tongues meeting shyly and then more boldly, breaths intermingling, lips nipping and sucking. Sherlock leaned closer, bringing John's face up, up…

...the sofa wobbled.

Sherlock wobbled.

Sherlock toppled.

Forward.

Neatly faceplanting into the wall that wasn't supporting the sofa anymore, being three feet from it. And finally falling on John, who didn't suffer any injury in the fall itself (having been cushioned by the back rest of the sofa) but was now sporting a blooming bruise in the middle of his forehead due to Sherlock hitting him with his elbow.

"Fuck" John whispered breathlessly.

"That was the general idea" Sherlock groaned softly, gingerly touching his nose. "Shit."

"I hope it's not broken. I really like that nose" John remarked mildly into Sherlock's abdomen.

"I feel rather attached to it" Sherlock snapped. "Very well. We have to… untangle this, somehow. Give me… Ouch.. a second… Maybe ten."

"OK."

…

…

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Where is your phone?"

"In my bag."

"Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I cheated. This time it was not specifically against the wall ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the +1 ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that :>  
> I am quite sure some of you will be pretty annoyed with this one...

The flat was shrouded in semi-darkness as they tumbled through the door, half-conscious, covered head-to-toe in pond scum, frog entrails, mud, dog slobber and dog hair, all of that thanks to a pair of overenthusiastic and very friendly Newfoundland dogs.

It hadn't even been a case. Or rather, it hadn't been a criminal case. There was something criminal in the whole situation - like the criminal level of optimism of all dog owners who believe that their dear favourites would sit when told to sit and stay when told to stay. And the case was one of stupidity of said owners and their fannish need to have a photo with Sherlock and John _and_ their dear doggie children.

Sherlock had made a face when the woman chattered about the perfect character of their darlings and made kissing noises at the two black monsters, each a size of a small horse - at least! but John managed to stop him from making any remarks by hissing "let them take the photo and they will _go_ ".

Well, in a way, they did. But not the owners - the dogs. First sat in front of the humans, they turned their heads away when the flash came on and then _started_. Or more like jumped up and run like animals possessed.

Before anyone could react, their leashes were out of the hands of their owners, the handles tangled and so the pair created a perfect, moving tripwire, which - in pursuit of a little squawking duck - the dogs used to drag John and Sherlock straight into a dirty, overgrown pond.

In seconds after they went in, the dogs were _on_ them, following their rescue instincts, trampling their possessions into the muddy bottom of the pond and dragging their unfortunate victims to the dry ground by whatever limb they managed to catch.

John had lost his gloves, his mobile and his knit cap in the operation, while Sherlock had to count himself a winner in that category - he had only lost one shoe.

The owners of the dogs were suitably chastised by the whole situation and offered the one thing they could (at least as an immediate measure) - a lift. As their backseat had been dog-proofed a long time ago, it could accommodate two pond-soaked London somewhat-of-celebrities.

John had suffered the ride in silence, shaking for most of the time and trying to push away the slobbering face of the smaller dog, while Sherlock had full attention of the bigger one. Both animals seemed to be shedding enormous amounts of fur, they stank of murky water and they produced more saliva than seemed to be physiologically reasonable.

Between the shaking due to complete and absolute soaking of their clothes, the car heating and the dogs being overactive warming bottles (with wiggly tails and cold noses) both the passengers wished for nothing more than to get home finally. The minute the car slowed down, they almost rolled out to the street, keys ready (John had made sure he had his set and cleaned it of some weird residue) and sprinted to their door, ignoring the apologies shouted at them by their fans.

"That was... disgusting," John remarked flatly as they finally pushed the door shut, trying not to leave too much of the dirt on it. "We need to change out of these clothes _right now_. And shower. Quickly. Before that damned mud dries."

"My coat is ruined," Sherlock added tiredly. "I've lost a shoe - I had just broken in that pair! And I think any electronics we had on ourselves is as good as dead."

"Let's just deal with our own state first," John gingerly undid his heavy jacket and dropped it on the lino-covered part of the floor. "Let's just... leave it all here, hm? This way we won't trail this crap all over the floor... seems slimy."

"I just hope we didn't swallow too much of it," Sherlock coughed and spat out something green. "I must say I like dogs in general but these two were..."

"A force of nature. You know, hunting instincts. They saw that duck and FOOF, off they went."

Sherlock was performing a complicated manoeuvre of sliding his coat off and trying to touch it as little as possible.

"FOOF, John, is in fact one of the deadliest and most unstable chemical reagents, mainly known as dioxygen difluoride... ugh, that was cold... which is a happy little compound which can make almost everything... Oh, I think I will take samples of that. Do you see? It wiggles! ...oxidise. That is, burn. Or detonate, as it may be. Including a very interesting reaction with methane... yeah, that shirt goes straight to the rubbish bin ...in which FOOF produces an explosion at minus hundred and eighty degrees Celsius."

"A _what_?"

"An explosion. Isn't it a lovely idea?"

John was already only in his pants (also soaked, but at least not slimy) while Sherlock was still wriggling himself out of his tight-fitting suit trousers.

"I will go and start the hot water," John pronounced into the air. "We need first to wash this crud off and then to soak properly. Please do not mix any kind of fluorine compound while I am doing that, OK?"

Sherlock made an impatient sound.

"That would require laboratory conditions that are impossible to gain in our kitchen, obviously!"

John only rolled his eyes, opening the door to the bathroom.

"Obviously. Thank heavens."

He opened the hot water tap and waited for the stream to become properly warm. Quickly he fetched the small, bristly brush he used to remove the most stubborn dirt from his hands and soaped it up. "Sherlock! Water is ready!"

He started to scrub his hands with the lather and so missed the sound of the door opening. Sherlock's pale, quiet form next to him in the mirror surprised him quite a bit and he swatted his friend's side.

"Into the tub with you, mister. Sit down and I will help you douse yourself with this. We need to take the top layer off before you can soak, or you will be soaking in green gunk."

The detective, strangely enough, didn't discuss the need to shower before the actual bath, but simply sat down (pants discarded by the door) and allowed himself to be washed without much protest. John carefully carded his fingers through the mud-glued inky curls, moving the showerhead and changing the shower mode to a focused, narrow and strong stream, allowing him to work on the thick strands much easier.

"Shampoo," he ordered and the bottle was silently upended over his hand, leaving a generous dollop of woodsy-smelling goo there. He wasted no time working it into Sherlock's curls and washing it off, leaving the hair much less pond-y.

"Now, you get out and let me shower," he prodded Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on, I need to wash too."

"Ah..." his friend raised his head. "I can't move, John. My legs are... I think the dive into that pond might have overtaxed me a bit."

John patiently pulled Sherlock's face up, looking at his pupils.

"You are just really, really tired. Now, if you can't move your legs, you can still help _me_ to shower. I did you, after all, that would be only fair."

He saw Sherlock breathe deeply and nod, moving a bit back, making room in the tub in front of him.

"Considering our lousy luck with... well, basically everything recently, I hope we will get out of this tub alive," John remarked gloomily. "Wait! Let's prepare reasonably. Painkillers, something for the possible oncoming cold and some drinking water," he brought that all in, putting a leaf of ibuprofen on the counter within arm's reach.

"Now, let me get in..."

 

Sherlock watched from under his half-shut lids as his - partner? - slowly got into the tub and sat down in front of him. Legs slightly shaky and skin partially covered with green residue he lowered himself in, his back to Sherlock, silently offering the showerhead and his shampoo.

Sherlock switched the shower back to general mode and started working on John's short-shorn hair. Fortunately not too much of the scum got stuck there, but a green shade still tainted the gold-silver head.

"Tilt back," he requested at some point and watched as John obediently leaned in the requested direction. "Looks like it's mostly clean, give me the shower gel now."

They continued with that weird, quiet routine - nothing routine about it, though! - with Sherlock lathering John carefully up and washing the suds away, mindful of his pulled muscles and skirting around the place where the dog had put more pressure - not breaking skin, luckily.

He was quite conscious of the way his hands slid down the smaller body and up the sides, and down the front, up the sides... Rhythm was broken from time to time by one of them coughing up bits of the lake or lying back to catch a breath or two.

Sherlock relished the feeling of John leaning onto him for support, even though both of them were barely keeping upright.

"I think that's it," he finally murmured into the soldier's nape. "I don't know about you, but I am plenty warm and that water is turning tepid. I think bed would be a better choice right now than a soak."

John hummed in assent and slowly hauled himself out of the tub, reaching for the towels he had prepared.

"Come on, take my hands and I'll help you out. Yeah, that's it. And your towel, and your dressing gown."

 

Both barely keeping upright, they stumbled into the corridor, holding each other vertical (more or less). Sherlock wound himself around his friend, nosing along the stubbly jawline with a happy sigh. John felt at the same time quite done in _and_ rather inspired by Sherlock's closeness, but the accidents that had plagues their previous attempts made him more than careful now.

"Ah-ah-ah," he coughed. "Not here. I am not risking any more injuries, whatever the reason."

"Too many... sharp edges..." Sherlock whispered into his clavicle. "Mmm... my bedroom?"

"Anything explosive under the bed?"

"Not particularly."

"Fluorine components you might have nicked from some lab?"

"Not this week."

"Mm... Dead animals? Pointy sticks? Anything risky at all?"

"John," the baritone went half an octave down. "This _is_ my bedroom. Not an obstacle course."

 

In fact, it was a surprisingly clean, ordered bedroom with a huge, rather low bed heaped with pillows.

"What?" Sherlock shrugged at John's slight surprise. "I don't sleep a lot, but when I do, I'd much rather be comfortable. Now, do you want to check the mattress for loose springs, or..."

"I will take the or," John huffed into the exposed part of Sherlock's chest. "Preferably now."

 

The bed was in fact luxuriously soft and they both sank into the mattress, Sherlock keeping on top, caging John with his long arms.

"So, this is what it's going to be like?" the older man murmured.

"Unless you want to complain...?" Sherlock drawled, latching onto a spot under John's ear and worrying it with his teeth.

"Not... ah, not in the slightest... Sherlock!"

"Yes?"

"Lube?"

"Bedside table."

"Condoms?"

"We don't need..."

" _Condoms._ "

A groan.

"Second drawer."

"Good," and with a small heave, John flipped them around, coming on top and pinning Sherlock's long arms to the mattress. "Do you have... any idea... how long..." he kissed down the freshly-washed body "...I've dreamt about... this...?"

Sherlock shivered at the slight brush of John's stubble on the skin of his abdomen.

"A-ah... Probably about... ah... the same as I did...?"

A pair of annoyed blue eyes looked up at him from where John had just stopped sucking a bruise into his hip.

"You git," the older man said with feeling. "Married to your work, are you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes expressively.

"Yeah, so you are my bit of rough on a side. The work will have to accept my faithlessness. Can you please conti... Ouch! What was that?!"

John's little growl sent a shiver down his spine.

"Your bit of rough, you bloody posh boy."

Soon, Sherlock relaxed again, since John's lips turned soft and started nibbling lower and lower and then there was a hand sneaking up to... to...

Not sneaking up. And John was no longer doing - whatever that had been - and...

Sherlock peeked under the duvet, where John had disappeared minutes before.

The soldier was snoring, using Sherlock's soft middle as a pillow.

_Seriously._

_On the plus side, we at least got into the bed without any incidents._

"Come on, John," he tapped his lover's shoulder. "Up you go. Let's at least get you into a more comfortable position..."

"...I will show you positions..." John mumbled. "Juss... give me... _yawn..._ a moment..."

"I'm sure you will. Three Continents Watson has to keep his reputation intact."

"How are you... so chipper... in the bathroom -  _yawn_ \- you were barely alive?"

"Hm, I have a handsome soldier in my bed  _and_ we managed to not break anything getting here. I would count it as a happy ending... even if there was no  _happy ending_ for us today."

#

As they slept late into the next morning, curled up under the thick eiderdown, the bell downstairs was rang, the door was opened, the knocker was straightened and heavy steps approached, all unnoticed by the slumbering pair.

What they  _did_ notice was a huge crash and an explosion of some rather undignified swearing when Mycroft stepped on Sherlock's discarded coat and went down, meeting the floor with impact.

And then the coat rack fell on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case someone wonders what Sherlock was blathering about, [here it is](http://blogs.sciencemag.org/pipeline/archives/2010/02/23/things_i_wont_work_with_dioxygen_difluoride).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [my tumblr](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/).  
> [My writing blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)  
> [My handmade blog.](https://srebrna.wordpress.com/)
> 
> Edit (April 2019):  
> I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)  
> (if you provided it already somewhere else - THANK YOU! :))


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